


Oh my god, they were roommates

by i_gaze_at_scully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Mutual Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but not smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2020-03-08 20:19:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18901936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_gaze_at_scully/pseuds/i_gaze_at_scully
Summary: This whole thing is based on a trope/AU mashup prompt I filled on tumblr: Roommate AU/Erotic dream. AU where Scully and Mulder are roommates and hoo boy is there something brewing in that two bedroom.





	1. Chapter 1

Her mother would consider it living in sin, so Scully just doesn’t tell her that her new roommate is a guy. 

What are you going to do when your last one up and leaves with no goddamn forwarding address (who  _does_  that?)? She put out an ad, conducted a phone and coffee interview, and deemed Fox Mulder an acceptable roommate until she can find an affordable one bedroom. 

It’s fine. He’s a nice guy, keeps to himself most of the time. Weirdly nocturnal, but quiet enough when she’s sleeping that it doesn’t bother her. And he brings fish with him - she likes the way the tank gurgles, it’s soothing. So Fox - no, it’s Mulder - Mulder’s working out all right. 

But then Mulder’s working out all right in their living room with no shirt on and one hell of a glistening sweat worked up and it does something to her. For fear of being a total perv, she grabs her breakfast and coffee (staring intently at the paper on the kitchen table without reading a single word while it percolates) and eats in her bedroom.

For a week straight.

She’s pretty good at clamping down on unwanted emotions and puts that annoying, inappropriate flash of desire out of mind for the rest of the day. Sadly though, she has no defense mechanism for her unconscious mind, and it runs  _wild._

Every night that week, there’s some dream about him, about  _them._ They’re in her bed, shaking the headboard and waking the neighbors. They’re on the couch, the gurgle of the fish tank a strange aphrodisiac. Once she stops him mid-workout, her hands on his chest and her tongue in his mouth, and that one freaks her out because it felt so  _real_  that she couldn’t meet his eye that whole day. The last night, of course, was the issue. Because the last night, she called out his name. And the last night, he heard. 

He wasn’t working out the next morning. Just sitting in his boxers, damn him, drinking black coffee and reading a paper. 

“Mornin’, Dana,” he says, raising his mug but not taking his eyes off the paper. He’s making her nervous.

“Hey Mulder.”

She walks on eggshells, only knowing that she woke up in a sweat with her hand between her thighs. She gets her yogurt and granola, her coffee and cream, and sits across from him. She eats in silence. She is mid sip when he says, “Sweet dreams last night?” 

She spits coffee all over the table. 


	2. Chapter 2

The breakup was nasty. Phoebe kicked him to the curb without so much as a glance and he’s lucky she didn’t chuck his fish tank out the window with his suitcase. 

He leaned hard on his friends. He found himself in a cramped trailer with three other grown men, three other painfully single men, three other men who also constantly asked  _ when the hell are you going to stop sleeping on our couch, Mulder _ ? The Gunmen’s patience was collectively wearing thin and Mulder, not smarting as bad anymore, started perusing classifieds for a bachelor pad.

But shit, living alone was expensive.

So he started perusing classifieds for a pad of any kind. One in Arlington caught his eye: _Own rm in lrg 2BR 1bath. $300/mo + util. Non-smoker, avail. immed._ _Call Dana 319-1029._

He called Dana 319-1029 and it turns out he wasn’t actually a he at all, but a  _ she _ , and a very pretty  _ she _ at that. But she wasn’t Mulder’s type, and she was all business at the coffee interview (thorough as hell, too), so he figured it would be okay. Just till he could find his own place. 

As a roommate, she is meticulous, but not bothersome about it. As far as he can tell, the discrepancy between what they both considered messy isn’t an issue for her, and by his standards, the place is immaculate. She seems to enjoy his fish a lot, and seeing someone loving them makes him smile. Dana’s really thoughtful too. Most nights, if he sleeps at all, it’s for a few hours on their couch. When Dana comes home from a late shift at the hospital, she takes the time to put out a glass of water for him and throw a blanket over him. She will always bring him a bagel if she makes a run, and she never seems to have anything pressing to watch the nights the Knicks are playing. She’s a pretty great roommate, all things considered. 

She’s also a pretty great person. He knew she was a medical doctor, but he didn’t realize how absolutely brilliant she was. He watches her sit cross legged on their couch, candlelight bouncing in the reflection of her round wire rimmed glasses, for hours. With a medical journal. No music, no TV, just a glass of wine and the latest edition of JAMA, Nature, the Lancet... it’s mind boggling. Any time he talks about something she finds interesting, there’s this gleam in her eye and this  _ focus _ on her face that just pins him right where he’s standing. She really  _ listens _ , and she seems to care about what she’s listening to. To care about him. She has this really exuberant smile sometimes that feels like lighting, her laughter, thunder. When they’re doing their morning routine dance, flitting around between the kitchen and their shared bathroom, he sometimes catching a whiff of her hair, and it smells like strawberries, cream, and the beach somehow. She has––

“Dude,” Langly says with a hard clap to Mulder’s shoulder. “You’re in love with your roommate.”

_ Shit.  _ He’s right.

“We told you so,” Byers chimed in. Mulder buries his head in his hands.

“Fellas, fellas,” Frohike interrupts. “Give the guy some credit. You’re a reasonable man, right Mulder?”

“I am...” 

“So you know it’s stupid to date your roommate?”

“I do...”

“So you wouldn’t mind telling the lovely Dana Scully about your handsome friend Melvin–”

“Oh fuck off, Frohike,” Mulder says, shoving his friend’s shoulder. “What do I do guys?”

Like something out of a goddamn cartoon, the three of them look first at each other, then at Mulder, and shrug. 

\---

He never got a gym membership. He didn’t think it was worth it, because he didn’t think he’d be living with Dana very long. So he worked out at home, made it a routine. It felt good to have something of a routine again. 

Every so often, Dana would stop working night shifts, and their mornings would sync up again. He notices how Dana’s started avoiding him when she’s working the day shift, and it really eats at him. She brings her coffee and breakfast into her bedroom, which is ridiculous, because he’s heard her on multiple occasions vacuuming after eating on the couch, let alone in her bedroom. She says goodnight quickly and slips right from the bathroom to her bedroom. He cannot for the life of him figure out what he’s done wrong. 

Until one night, he figures out that actually, maybe, for the first time in a long time, he’s done something right. 

She’s so quiet he almost misses it, but the stars align and he doesn’t miss it. He is in his bedroom, wired and tired, tracing ceiling fan circles till his eyes cross and he hears his name coming from the wall he shares with Dana. He stops breathing, stops moving, holds perfectly still and listens harder.  _ Mulder,  _ he hears, a muffled, urgent moan that goes straight to his cock.

_ Now what?  _ He wonders. She’s beautiful and brilliant and kind and fierce and he’s not even known her two months yet. She is good to him without obligation, without being beholden to him or getting anything in return. In another world, he’d really like to ask her out.

But she’s his roommate. Love struck as he might be, he knows that’s a disaster waiting to happen.

He gets up and heads to the kitchen for some coffee and hopefully some inspiration. He reads a paper with his ankle resting on his knee, pours some more coffee, and still has no idea what to do by the time Dana comes sleepily out of her bedroom a couple of hours later. 

“Mornin’, Dana,” he says, raising his mug but not taking his eyes off the paper. 

“Hey Mulder.”

She gets her yogurt and granola, her coffee and cream, and sits across from him. Her hair is tussled, her cheeks flushed; her tongue darts out to catch a stray piece of granola at the corner of her mouth. She eats in beautiful silence and Mulder is loathe to know he has to break it.

She is mid sip when he says, “Sweet dreams last night?” 

She spits coffee all over the table. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh shit, sorry, I just, here let me––” He stumbles with his words the way she stumbles out of her seat to get paper towels. He trips over them like he trips over her foot trying to help her. He catapults hip first into the kitchen counter. She throws a sheet of paper towel unceremoniously onto the table and turns to grab Mulder a bag of frozen peas.

“What the fuck, Mulder?” Concern and confusion, anger and anxiety all swirl a noxious concoction within her.  _What the fuck_  is really the only question that makes sense right now. Peas plastered to his hip, Mulder grimaces in pain. Or maybe embarrassment, by the flush in his cheeks. Probably both. He squeezes his eyes shut and she sighs.

“Did you hit anywhere but your hip? Your head?” She steps closer, coffee forgotten, and checks for a head injury, her fingertips palpating his scalp. In doctor mode, she almost doesn’t notice how soft his hair is and how smoothly it glides between her fingers. Almost.

She reaches a sensitive spot on his scalp and he winces. Sucking her teeth, she reaches back into the freezer for a bag of frozen broccoli.

“You’re lucky I’m stocked up,” she teases, wrapping the broccoli in a dish towel and gently pressing it to his head. Neither the joke nor the cold seem to help though, and she returns to the table to mop up the coffee. He watches her wordlessly - even when she’s looking down, she can feel his eyes - and she doesn’t know how to handle it. Luckily, or unluckily, after this whole ordeal, she’s late for work.

“Shit, I have to go,” she says, dumping the remnants of her coffee in the sink and tossing the soggy paper towel. “You should lie down for a bit, take two Advil with water, here–”

She flits to the cabinet to grab a glass but he stops her with gentle fingers on her wrist.

“I’m bruised, not dying,” he chuckles. “I can get myself water and Advil, doc, I promise.” He flashes her a grin that’s less than convincing and nods towards the door. “You should go. I’m sorry I made you late.”

She has no words, and no time, so she pats his arm and rushes out the door,  _what the fuck just happened_  looping through her brain the whole drive to the hospital.

—

The bruise to his ego hurts worst of all, blooming purple and angry, nebulous and bone deep. He’s a goddamn fucking idiot is what he is, a pervy idiot to boot. He briefly considers packing up his things and moving back to the Gunmen’s just to spare himself the agonizing mortification to come. And to spare Dana the nuisance of living with him anymore.

He has to figure out how to fix this.

Limping a bit on his banged up hip with a bag of broccoli to his temple, he follows the doctor’s orders and gulps down a glass of water and two (well, three) Advil. He calls work, tells them he’s running late. Sitting on the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand, he begs for any idea, any at all, to remedy this absolute clusterfuck.

He draws a blank.

He takes stock of everything he knows about Dana Scully. Her middle name is Katherine, and she’s a medical doctor, for starters. He takes stock of everything he knows about Dr. Dana Katherine Scully.

She grew up on a Naval base in California. Loves the beach, loves a bath, hates cheap champagne and soggy cereal. She has two sisters and one brother. Wait, no. One sister, one… two? Two brothers? Two brothers. She has one sister and two brothers and her mom’s name is… Margaret. Melissa and Margaret, M names, easy. Her dad is Bill and one brother is Bill, also easy, and then…. Harvey? Fuck it, he doesn’t know the other brother’s name but he knows he exists.

Beach, baths, and science. Dana loves science, all science. They overlap most in neuroscience, but she’s gone on for an hour about an obscure discovery in the field of chemistry that had him at the edge of his seat. She loves lavender, classical music, chamomile tea. She cooks a lot, and it’s always really good, and he knows this because she always shares, which is wonderful of her.

He has to fix this.

He thinks of all the ways he’s apologized to the women in his life before and realizes that none of them are applicable to Dr. Dana Katherine Scully because she isn’t anything like the other women in his life, not even close. If he bought her a bouquet of calla lilies (her favorite flower), she’d thank him and put it in water and never bring this morning up again, but she wouldn’t have forgiven him. It would eat at them both. Things would just become more and more awkward and the flowers would die and then what? There are …other ways he’s made things up to women in his life that are pretty goddamn foolproof, but as much as he might wish otherwise, those things are out of the question.

And then, right before he hauls his sorry ass to work, the lightbulb goes off.

—

 _Ding_. The microwave goes off and Dana pulls her leftover lasagna out, taking every second of her ten minute break to eat, breathe, and unfortunately, think. When she’s moving quickly enough, her brain doesn’t have time to unpack what happened over breakfast, but the second she sits, it all comes tumbling out.

 _It could have been innocent_ , she tries to tell herself.  _Not likely - who the hell says “Sweet dreams last night?” like that in normal everyday conversation?_  In fairness, if anyone would, it would be Mulder. But still, considering how thin their bedroom walls are and the state she was in when she woke up this morning, breathless, pulsing, sticky… not likely.

 _Why would he do that, embarrass me like that?_  He’s not a cruel person. He’s actually one of the most authentic people she’s ever met. He’s a dork and a lug and she really likes that about him, that he never tries to be something he’s not around her. She’s only known him for less than two months, but she knows he wouldn’t try to hurt her on purpose.

 _Could he just be that stupid?_  Well. He  _is_  a man.

 _But maybe_ … it’s minute nine of ten and she doesn’t have time to get into the but maybes, and yet the nagging voice amidst the mental cacophony that says  _maybe he liked it_  is too strong to ignore.  _Maybe he likes_ you, it says, and then minute nine is up, and she goes back to work flushed head to toe.

—

He had to leave work early to set it all up, and Skinner was not appreciative of that, but Skinner needs to take the stick out of his ass anyway. He stops by that new Staples store for a pack of notecards and a Sharpie marker, runs to the liquor store for a bottle of red, and picks a carton of lo mein up for himself (though Dana will likely pick, because she does sometimes, and he enjoys that).

On each card, he writes something he likes about her. Like the Chinese food thing, or how no matter how exhausted she is when she gets out of work, she always asks how his day was before she goes to bed. Or the way her nose crinkles when she laughs, or the way he sees a Fibonacci spiral every time she quirks an eyebrow when he says something crazy (which is a lot). He saves a few cards though and writes directions, notes, clues. And on one special card, he writes something else entirely.

Cards in place, he slips out the door into the courtyard behind their apartment with the wine and the lo mein, and waits.


	4. Chapter 4

Dana decides it’s time to find a one bedroom. Complacent and comfortable with her new roommate, and absolutely swamped at work, she’d unconsciously put the search on hold. Driving home from the hospital, a ball of nerves and discomfort, feeling like something akin to the ticking of a clock, she figures she’d be better off. Dreams aside, she just doesn’t think of Mulder  _ that way _ , the way he definitely thinks she thinks of him. He’s hot as hell as she knows it (and  _ he _ knows it), but he isn’t someone she would want to date, even if circumstances were different. He’s not really her type, if she’s being honest. She figures she’ll blow this morning off, let both of them recover from the embarrassment, and actively be looking for other apartments. When she finds one, she’ll be sure to pay rent till he can find another roommate or his own place. He’s a great guy, and a surprisingly good roommate, but this is just… too much.

For a moment, white knuckling the wheel, she chastises herself for the cowardice, for running away instead of facing the issue head on.

But she doesn’t even know what the issue  _ is _ .  _ What  _ is too much? The dreams? She can handle those, she knows her body will acclimate soon and she won’t be absurdly turned on every day forever. The incident this morning? It was nothing but a misstep (verbally and physically) nothing to move out over. What the hell is she avoiding then? What is she running from?

She’d rather search the classifieds than her own mind for that answer; they will be kinder to her by far. So she takes a deep breath, releases the wheel, and gets out of the car. 

There’s a pang of regret about the decision when she smells someone eating Chinese from the courtyard. Mulder is a good roommate, and he’s a good friend too. He always lets her pick at his Chinese food, even when she doesn’t order anything.

She doesn’t  _ want _ to move out, but it’s for the best. It’s definitely better this way.

The apartment is dark when her key turns in the lock. “Mulder?” She calls out. He’s usually home by now. She flips the switch to turn on the light, and a piece of paper flutters to the floor. Bending to dump her gym bag, she picks it up and inspects it. It’s just a notecard, but Mulder’s written something - his writing is a small step above chicken scratch, but she can read it. 

_ Fox Mulder’s Guide (and Apology) to Dr. Dana Katherine Scully, M.D. _

Scrunching her eyebrows together, she flips the card over. She has to squint to decipher the tinier, somehow scratchier print. 

_ Dana, _ _   
_ _ I’m really sorry about this morning. I have something for you to make it up to you. I’d understand if you’d rather not talk or think about it, but indulge me? I know I shouldn’t be asking any favors, but hopefully it’s worth your while. _ _   
_ _ Mulder _ _   
_ __ P.S. I should probably tell you where to look, huh? When you’ve put your gym bag down, lift it back up for a second and look under that corner of the rug. 

She flips the card back over, then again, and looks around the apartment. What the hell is going on? With her eyes still scanning the room, she follows the direction and lifts her bag and the corner of the rug to find another notecard. She immediately rolls her eyes.

_ Don’t roll your eyes. But yes, this is a scavenger hunt ☺ _

Dear lord.

_ You’ve probably had a long day,  _ the card continues, and she grumbles aloud to no one: “Getting longer by the minute.” _ Maybe you could use some tea. I know you love chamomile, so I set up a kettle and mug for you on the stove. _

Oh. It’s only two cards into this supposed scavenger hunt and she can tell how much effort and thought went into this. She’s touched. Drumming her fingers against her thigh, she lights the stove to heat the kettle, then sits at the kitchen table with the mug, which, naturally, does not contain just her tea bag, but card number three.

_ While you wait for the water to boil, I wanted you to know how much I’ve enjoyed learning about tea from you. First of all, there are different kinds? News to me. You taught me about green tea, how you’re not supposed to steep it in boiling water, and how you aren’t supposed to leave the bag in the mug. And then you let me taste yours, done perfectly, and it blew my mind. I’m not a tea guy, but I love when you teach me new things - especially tasty things.  _

She leans back in the chair and chuckles, remembering that evening. She’d been hunched over the coffee table with a cup of hot chamomile and a patient’s chart; Mulder had been sprawled along the couch with a headache and cold case. “Does that tea stuff help headaches?” He’d asked, leaning over to try hers, his knee against her shoulder, when he scalded his tongue. She’d scolded him and launched into the purported medicinal benefits of tea, conceding that herbals were an important component in one’s healthcare, but never curative in and of themselves. He’d smirked and called her a skeptic. They’d spent the next half hour dissecting of the history, purpose, and curation of tea, from China to Lipton and back again. She made him try properly steeped green tea, and apparently, it blew his mind. 

She remembers other evenings with former roommates too. Her college roommates used to leave her hunched over the coffee table studying while they went and partied. The first boyfriend she ever moved in with didn’t know chamomile from chameleon. Only her very close friends even knew she drank tea - she always drank coffee out and at work. 

There’s no further instruction on card three and the disappointment stings at the back of her throat. She brushes it off, reminds herself to be thankful for the tea, and moves to put the mug in the sink. Covering the drain, however, is another notecard. Her heart flutters and she physically places her hand on her chest as if to stop it, as if she had any control over it at all. 

_ Really hoping you don’t accidentally soak this one… it’s kind of important. Important because in part, it’s to let you know that I really love the way you laugh. Thinking about it is almost enough to make  _ me _ laugh. I like the way your nose scrunches and how sometimes you snort, because the only thing that matters is the bubbling up of joy and not the way others perceive you. That’s pretty cool, Dana. Thought you should know. _

Dammit, Mulder. Her face is entirely flushed and she has to put the notecard down for a second to collect herself. This is by far the most romantic thing anyone’s done for her, and she’s not even romantically involved with him. Shit, she’s only known him two months! Has anyone ever known her so well in just two months? He isn’t her type, she reminds herself, but suddenly she can’t remember what that means. She picks the card back up. 

_ On the back, please find a primitive drawing of where to find the next card. _

True to form, she snorts when she sees it. It is a stick figure sitting cross legged, she assumes despite the anatomical impossibilities, with big round glasses and hair drawn with a red pen instead of black. Her caricature has a book open in her hands. Underneath the drawing, it says:  _ Last week I found out about  _ _ Tracheoesophageal Fistulas when you read from this. So gross, Dana, so gross. _

Immediately, she opens up the latest edition of JAMA on their coffee table and another card falls out. She’s enjoying herself, and as the anticipation of finding the next card surges through her, she lets it happen. 

The hunt takes her around all the nooks and crannies of their apartment, which Mulder did a wonderful job cleaning as part of this production (an added perk, to be sure). Card after card, she is delighted, entertained, flattered, humbled. She’s impressed with how well he knows her, how easily he predicted her ability to follow the clues, how elaborate it all is. Not for the first time, she reflects on how much care this had to take. How much care he put into it. 

Sometimes, there are two cards. One just says something sweet like  _ You probably get this a lot, but you have beautiful hair _ , or something cheesy like  _ I see a Fibonacci spiral every time you tell me I’m crazy,  _ or something silly like  _ You’re cool  _ with a sunglass-wearing smiley drawing. The other will have the clue. She’s careful to keep them in separate piles in the two pockets of her zipper up. They’ll be nice to have on a rainy day, and she smiles to think he knew that. Fox Mulder seems to have thought of everything.

Everything, of course, except for the end of the hunt.

Dana gets to the last card and tries desperately, with little success, not to deflate. She flips it front and back, front and back, but all it says is:

_ Congrats! You did it! Thanks for playing, roomie. -M _

She retraces her steps, back to the beginning, sure she’s missed something. For the first time since she walked in the door, she wonders where the hell he actually is. He really should have been home by now. 

She looks back at the final card, thumbing the edges and sighing. When her nail grazes the corner and she hears a click, she stops breathing. She sucks her teeth at the overreaction, but can’t stop the butterflies as she realizes there are two cards stuck together. Carefully, far more slowly than her excitement calls for, she pries them apart without tearing the paper. 

_ I couldn’t tell if gluing these two cards together would be incredibly stupid or absolutely brilliant, so you’ll have to tell me. You’re the rational one in the house, after all. I’ll claim the role of “the tall one,” because  _ someone _ has to reach the wine glasses at the top of the cabinet. I used my tallness to take some glasses down – _

She knew there had to be a reason those were on the counter!

_ – so please do use your incredible, one-of-a-kind, beautiful brain to tell me whether this glue thing worked. I’m down in the courtyard. And Dana--if you got this far, thank you. Hope to see you down here. _

He’s waiting for her in the courtyard. Jitters scamper along her arms, down her spine, in her stomach. She forces a few calming breaths. Glasses in hand, she walks out the door and around the front of the brick building, squeezing down the narrow walkway that leads to the courtyard.

“Hey roomie,” comes a voice from the far corner. The courtyard is a small and poorly organized space. There’s one bench in each corner, only one of which falls in the range of a working lantern. Sitting on that bench, your back is to the contrived koi pond and you are face to face with immaculately manicured shrubbery and the south entrance to the courtyard. Sitting on that bench, of course, is Mulder. 

“Mulder, you really–”

“Chinese?” He interrupts, holding out a pair of chopsticks and a heavenly smelling container. “You took so damn long, I finished the lo mein, but I had some more delivered.”

“You were sitting here this whole time?” She asks incredulously, checking her watch. “I was up there for... two hours!” He arches his eyebrows and wags the carton in response. She takes a deep breath, exhales a in a  half-chuckle, and sits beside him. 

“Thank you,” she says, trading the wine glasses for dinner. She tries to catch his eye, indicate somehow that she’s not just thanking him for the takeout, but he’s turned from her. She hears the pop of a cork and the glug of glasses being filled. 

“Seriously, Mulder, you didn’t have to do all of that,” she manages, balancing the carton between her legs and taking one of the glasses from him. “A simple ‘sorry’ would have sufficed just fine.”

“No, it wouldn’t have,” he asserts, clinking her glass against his and taking a generous sip. “You would have accepted the apology gracefully, then moved out sooner rather than later.” She sees the corners of his lips and eyes draw skyward as her jaw drops to the floor. Over the rim of the glass, his eyes twinkle. 

“How the hell did you know that?”

“Well, I’m a fucking idiot,” he says simply, and she waits for more, but that’s all.

“That’s...the opposite of an explanation.”

He chuckles, spontaneously producing a pair of chopsticks from his pocket and stealing a bite of her lo mein. “It actually explains pretty much all of my life, but I can elaborate.” He angles his body more towards her, his knee grazing her thigh and his arm coming to rest on the back of the bench. Suddenly, the light air around them disappears, taking with it the sounds, the smells, anything and everything that’s not the hazel of his eyes or the movement of his lips.

“I like you, Dana.” His voice is so soft, so genuine, it goes straight to her heart, sending warmth through every vein in her body. “I’m an idiot for trying to do anything but be honest about that. For trying to play it cool, and clearly failing miserably. For thinking even for a second that I might make it up to you with flowers or chocolate. For not telling you all of the things on those cards sooner.”

She’s not sure she’s ever been rendered so wholly speechless in her life. It would be impossible to respond to if his expression didn’t betray the effortlessness of his whole spiel. Maybe it wouldn’t have been obvious to an onlooker, maybe she knows him better than she gave herself credit for, but she can tell that he’s nervous, too. Though not impossible, it’s still difficult to respond.  

“I’m not good with feelings,” she admits ineloquently, honestly.  “I think––god we sound like we’re in middle school, don’t we?––I think I like you too, I just…” She doesn’t pause at the confession, barrels ahead in her word vomit. She’s usually a lot better about this. “This isn’t how these things are supposed to work.” It’s neither a step toward nor a step away. She searches his features for a reaction, but finds nothing. 

“That is... technically true,” he concedes. “But you do like me then? I didn’t want to assume, and not to reinsert my foot into my mouth here, but after last night….” 

“Oh, god!” She buries her face in her hands, the memory coming back in a flash. “I don’t even want to know,” she moans into her palm, mortified. Beside her, Mulder laughs and scoots closer. 

“Hey, hey,” he says, wrapping his fingers around her wrists and tugging gently. “At least you’re not the one who took a cabinet doorknob to the temple. You can’t control your dreams.”

She shakes her head, keeps her palms firmly in place. She was wrong. This is  _ worse _ than middle school, and she is a grown ass woman.

“Dana,” he says with quiet conviction. “I mean it. There’s no reason to be embarrassed. If anything, I’m grateful, because I think that knob may have knocked some sense into me.” She peeks through her fingers and sees his smile, remembers how safe he makes her feels. Reluctantly, she slowly lowers her hands.

“Wine?” He reminds her, lifting the abandoned glass at her ankle, and she snorts, not bothering to cover her mouth. She chugs what’s left and exhales sharply, determinedly, purposefully. 

“We live together,” she states.

“That we do.”

“We would be skipping a  _ lot _ of steps.”

“That we would.”

“You don’t just fool around with someone you live with.”

“You certainly don’t.”   
  


“Mulder! I’m serious!” She swats at his arm and he readjusts, completely facing her, both hands resting on her thigh. 

“Dana, do you think I’d set that whole thing up and be making a fool of myself out here if I wasn’t serious?” Beyond a shadow of a doubt, one look at his face convinces her that he’s telling the truth. As hard as it is to believe, she knows he is. 

“It’s weird, Mulder, and it’s scary, and–” she throws her hands up in frustration. “–I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore! Do you?” 

“Not one bit.” He grins wide, the weak light behind her illuminating his face in soft rays. “But I’d like to kiss you now if that’s okay.” 

She shouldn’t be surprised at this point, but the question and the unabashed hope on his face breaks down any shred of the wall around herself that was left standing. 

“That would be okay with me,” she whispers, smiling into her words. 

His kiss is cotton candy, sweet and ephemeral, a wisp in the wind. It’s so soft, she wonders if she’s dreamt this whole thing. He brings his warm palm up to caress her neck, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone, and she feels him smile against her lips. She smiles back. 

“To answer your query,” she whispers as she pulls away. They’re both grinning like fools with their foreheads pressed together. “Gluing the cards? Brilliant.” 


	5. Epilogue

Months later, as they’re packing belongings into boxes and cleaning under furniture, she finds a dusty notecard.

“Hey Mulder?” She calls into the other room. “What is this?”

“What’s up?” He says, poking his head into the room from the bathroom. She watches his face flash through a gambit of reactions: curiosity, scrutiny, recognition, panic. 

“Oh, jeez,” he starts. “Hey, I thought I was packing up my side, let me see that––” He dives headfirst toward her, but she tucks her elbow into her side and clutches the card tightly to her.

“Give it–”

“What it is?” She repeats, twirling deftly, evading his hand as it darts in her space, reaching for the card. She giggles as his attempts brush against sensitive parts of her stomach, her underarms. 

“Dana, please–” They dance around each other, Dana always one step ahead as Mulder looms over, around, and above her all at once. Finally, he pulls her flush against him, her hands and the card stuffed between them, inaccessible to either person.

“Mulder,” She says, the playfulness fading. “It’s just a card.” She looks at him from her favorite spot, tucked warm and cozy beneath his chin, and the anxiety that radiates from him softens her.

“Mulder…” She gently tests the waters, pulls away slowly and brings her hands down to his waist, disentangling herself and pressing the card there. “You can have it, I was just curious.”

He sighs and shakes his head, then gathers her hands in his and brings them to his lips. They’re feather light against her skin, suspending on wings the intimacy of that moment; an unmoving kiss, an unwavering trust. When he releases her hands, she finds the card tucked in them. She catches his eye, silently asking for final permission, and he nods.

_I know we’ve only known each other two months, and I know this whole scavenger hunt thing could be a complete flop and you could have my stuff on the curb in a heartbeat, but I want you to know that I intend to marry you one day, Dana Katherine. It feels ridiculous even just writing that down, but right too. Don’t ask me how I know, I just have this feeling. This card is just for me, though, a reminder. A promise. I’m not going to ask you to marry me via notecard, that’d be unbelievably lame. I’ll think on it. One day, I’ll have something good enough for you._

Dana keeps her chin tucked to her chest, flipping the card front to back, stalling as tears well in the corners of her eyes. She blinks, and there is a splat as a tear drops onto the card.

“Oh!” She gasps, trying to blot the water out, but the old ink is weary and vulnerable, and much of the message smudges. “Dammit,  _dammit,_ ” she hisses, swiping tears away with tense fingers. Suddenly Mulder is there, his hands cupping her face and his lips firmly meeting hers with reverence and passion and infinite patience. The pads of his thumbs spread flattened tears along her cheekbone, and her heart returns to stasis. She draws a breath to speak, thinking the kiss is over, but then his hands move from her cheeks to her hair, the nape of neck. He moves into her space, pulling her to him and kissing her breathless, senseless. “Mul–” she mumbles with a smile against his lips, but he is relentless, and she is laughing and gasping for breath when she finally pushes her hands between them.

“I’m not avoiding it,” he breathes, reading her mind. “I’m just... really happy about your reaction is all. I’m just glad–” He peppers kisses over her forehead, along her jawline. “–it didn’t scare you away.”

She wraps her arms around his chest, breathes in packing dust and man sweat and Mulder. They’re moving in together, a phrase they love telling people to confuse them.  _Don’t you already live together?_  They ask. Dana and Mulder just grin, their own little inside joke. They’ve been packing for weeks, because what’s the rush? Mulder inherited the house six months ago, a little thing tucked away right where rural meets suburban. Some weekends they go over and paint, and she always ends up with a little dot on her nose and a handprint on the breast of her junk shirt. She always finds a way to get paint on him somewhere it takes him till Tuesday to discover. They end up making love on tarps by their future fireplace and stargazing in the backyard, where the stars meet the sky and the distance from the city draws them closer to one another. They’ve talked about what they value in public versus private education, talked about family names and children with hyphenations and everything. 

Everything, of course, except marriage itself. 

Dana pulls herself far enough away to search his face.

“You really knew then?”

“I really did.”

“And you still...?”

“And I still.”

A heavy pause, a moment suspended in the center of his eye where hazel meets iris, where now meets forever. She folds the card in half, holds it over her heart and brings his hand to cover her own.

“Then ask me,” she says. “It is not unbelievably lame. In fact, I cannot think of anything better.”

He forgoes bending on one knee, forgoes a ring, forgoes convention and tradition of any kind. He rests his forehead against hers, both their hands over her heart, and he whispers it, soft and tender.

“Dana Katherine Scully - will you marry me?”

“Mm,” she hums. “I’ll think about it.”

He snorts, and the joy erupts then. The absurdity of that snort, of the two of them getting engaged standing like that in the middle of an empty room with their hands clasped around a notecard - it makes her snort, too. She snorts and he scoops her up over his shoulder as she pounds his back, card still in hand, until he dumps her on their bed and kisses her and kisses her and kisses her.

They marry at and move into the home where rural meets suburban, where stars meet the sky, where now meets forever.


	6. Epilogue...2?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got drunk and got a prompt on tumblr to update this even though it was already finished 😂

She isn’t as creative as he is. It doesn’t come naturally to her, logical as she is, so she plays to her strengths instead.

The house creaks with winter, strains against the cold and the snow, but Dana holds it up on her shoulders tonight. She painstakingly sets out, candle by candle, a shimmering walkway against a sea of white leading to the front door. A fire roaring in the fireplace, she lays a blanket out beside it, turns off the lights. If she could have recreated his scavenger hunt, she would have, but this will have to do.

He steps through the door so gingerly she almost misses it.

“Dana?” He calls, and then he sees her. She motions him over with a smile.

“I have something for you,” she says, willing her voice to be strong but settling for the steady whisper that comes out instead.

Concern washes over his face. “Am I an idiot?” He asks. “Did I forget something? It’s not our anniversary, your birthday already–”

“Sit, Mulder.” She reaches a hand out and he takes it, lowering himself to the blanket. She takes a deep breath.

“I’m not… you’re definitely better at this sort of thing, but I wanted to make it special, I wanted–”

“Make what special? Dana, this is all really nice, but please - what’s going on?”

She takes his face in her hands, kisses him gently.

“You’re so impatient, you know that? What if I’d just called your cell phone during your scavenger hunt, hm? Ruined the whole thing.” She runs her fingers through his hair, watches them disappear and reappear as the strands sway. “I’m trying here.”

He melts into her touch, hums his assent. “Okay. I trust you.”

“Close your eyes,” she lulls, “and hold out both hands.”

Before he follows her directions, he steals a kiss to the corner of her mouth, eliciting a giggle and almost throwing her off balance. But finally, his hands are open, his eyes closed.

“Don’t open them until I tell you to, and don’t think too hard yet either.”

“Fat chance,” he mumbles, but she’s busy rummaging in the basket behind her. She gently takes something out, places it in one of his outstretched hands. She gently curls his fingers around it, then takes his other hand and pulls it towards her, placing it on her stomach. Her heart flutters wildly.

“Okay, open.”

Slowly, hazily, as if in a dream, he looks first at where his hand lays. She holds hers over it, biting her lip as he absorbs the clues. They’re so much simpler than his, so much more straightforward, yet infinite. He looks down into his other hand at the slender stick.

When he looks back at her, the universe explodes in his eyes.

“You’re….?”

Unable to contain her excitement, she nods rapidly, bouncing one crossed knee and gripping his hand.  

“We’re going to, I’m going to–”

She nods faster, somehow, hums her confirmation, and braces herself as he leaps across the blanket to tackle her in an embrace.

“Oh my god,” he’s repeating, his hands in her hair, bracketing her face as he hovers above her, ghosting over her stomach, stabilizing himself with her hip bones. “Dana, we’re going to have a baby. We’re going to have a  _baby_!”

He kisses her through happy tears and a grin wide enough to swallow the winter sun. She kisses him back with enough warmth to melt the snow.

“Dana,” he whispers against her cheek. She closes her eyes and lets the unbridled joy of the moment sink in.

“Did you make me hold the stick that you peed on?”

Her head flies back in laughter as she slaps his arm. He nips her neck in response, rolling them over so that his back is to the fire. Somehow, even though he blocks the flames, she doesn’t feel the cold.

“I love you so much,” he whispers.

“I love you, too.”


End file.
